The Cantora

Chapter 2

As promised, a soldier from the garrison arrived with two mules in tow. He placed a small stool on the cobblestones and assisted Doçura into the sidesaddle on the smaller animal. She found the riding uncomfortable but tolerable as the soldier first led her around the courtyard before mounting his mule to demonstrate the fine art of controlling the animal.

Next morning, as the sun first colored the eastern sky, she went to the chapel where Bishop Damião and Fr. Julian conducted the Lauds sunrise devotion. The bishop’s participation in this service was unusual. …but today is special, he declared in his brief sermon. Afterwards he asked Julian and Doçura to join him for a breakfast in his private quarters. Two acolytes stood by as the three of them settled around the bishop’s small dining table. The acolytes served a fine breakfast of boiled hen’s eggs, maize biscuits and honey, and steaming yerba buena.

Am I expecting too much from this child? the bishop asked.

Fr. Julian, looking much improved from the day before—clean shaven and wearing a newly-laundered robe—answered, We shall see, Excellency. At the very least she will be an extraordinary asset to the Mass.

After further speculations and casual talk, and the breakfast concluded, the bishop stood and gestured outside. Well, he said, you two must start your journey. I am eager to experience this momentous day for our little diocese in this backwater of Christendom.

They set off, led by an Indian guide on foot and trailed by two armed soldiers from the garrison. The forest at the border of the settlement had always loomed mysteriously to Doçura, but only because she had not much considered it. Once inside she began to savor the sights around her.

Fr. Julian commented on her composure. I had thought, dear sister, that you would regard the jungle with trepidation.

Oh, I’m quite familiar with jungles from my time on Tomé Island. The many creatures, the thousand greens, the sights and smells, they fascinate me. Perhaps The Garden was something like this. She pulled herself upright, trying to ease her discomfort. I cannot say the same for riding this poor animal. His gait is uneven, and the saddle was certainly not made for a woman wearing a nun’s habit. And then, with a wave of her hand and a quick smile, But in service to Our Savior, I will happily survive.

To their astonishment, a large cloud of delicate butterflies, small and of the palest green, descended from the trees and hovered everywhere, alighting on the mules and around everyone’s eyes. They steal salt from the animals’ skin and from the eyes, Fr. Julian explained, brushing several from his face. "The Indians call them hapoo jeyurã, tear drinkers." As if the priest had commanded their leave, the myriad jeyurã took flight, rising and falling around them with wind-like sighs. Doçura found the swirl of butterflies remindful of the early spring snowfalls in Lisbon, and she grew quiet and thoughtful. But then, as if the forest wished to further its welcome, they entered a small clearing where stood an immense fig tree from which a steady rain of vermillion flower petals cast loose by a flock of noisy birds feeding in the highest branches, drifted to the jungle floor.

Having noticed Doçura’s long silence, Julian said, You appear thoughtful.

I am, the sister replied. Just thinking of home. In an effort to not be questioned further she asked, Do you miss Portugal, Fr. Julian?

Yes, he answered. What I wouldn’t give to see my home again.

Where was that?

Way to the south. Portimão. He paused for a moment. Would you believe that my father was a priest?

She gave him a quizzical look. I’ve heard of such things. Did you live with him?

Oh no. He was the vicar for the southern diocese. But he took very good care of my mother and me. Everyone in town knew he was my father, and no one seemed to care. He raised a hand to his ear. Hear that? We’re getting close.

Within minutes they arrived at the Caeté camp on the south bank of the Rio Jacu. Doçura found herself surprised by the number of people, adults and children, about a dozen in all.

The Indians began an excited chatter as Fr. Julian helped the sister dismount. They’ve never seen a nun before, he explained. The priest introduced the adults, the singer’s father and mother, two aunts and an uncle. One of the aunts—the only native fully clothed—stood apart from the others with her arms crossed and stared unblinkingly at Doçura. The woman wore a twisted red cloth encircling her head, and a vest decorated with vertical strings of black beads. With her heavily tattooed face and forearms, she presented an imposing figure.

Fr. Julian paid particular attention to her. This is Janaína, he said. "She is the tribe’s medicine woman, the turguy kuñã."

The nun acknowledged her with a quick smile, but the woman remained impassive. Is she angry? Doçura asked.

The priest shrugged. Perhaps, but it’s complicated. I’ll explain later.

Doçura eyed the children. So who is the little girl with the miraculous voice? she said, then felt silly, knowing none of them understood her.

To the nun’s amazement, a beautiful youngster stepped forward. In distinct Portuguese she said, I am the girl who sings in church. The child wore an orange headdress with a ring of blue feathers, but was otherwise naked. She had a round face, lovely olive skin, and dark eyes that danced as she spoke.

In reflex, the sister crossed herself. Oh my, she said, How unexpected!

She is quite remarkable, the priest offered. Yema would have introduced us all if I had not. The Indians encourage their children to speak freely to anyone.

Yema, that’s her name?

Yemanjá, actually, the priest answered. Though everyone calls her Yema. The little girl smiled and curtseyed.

Yemanjá? the nun repeated. I’ve heard that before.

No doubt you have. It’s one of their pagan gods, the Goddess of the Sea. The natives invoke her name all the time. Some carry little carved statues of her.

Yema spoke up. Yemanjá is also the… She searched a moment for the words. —the guardian of children.

In that instant, Doçura had known exactly what the girl intended to say. Her throat grew tight and she stifled a gasp. Here was the same fear she’d felt in Bishop Damião’s office when they first talked about the child. It took her a few seconds to regain speech, though she could not voice her feelings. Instead she said to Fr. Julian, But the quality of her Portuguese?

Ah yes, he answered. Yema’s gift goes far beyond song. She seems to remember everything, and her propensity for language now extends to rote Latin. Besides the singing parts, she has learned the full liturgy of the Mass just by listening.

Should it bother us that this rite is limited to priests and acolytes? Certainly not a female.

Julian shook his head. "She does not recite the Mass, but only sings a brief portion, the Confiteor Deo. With Bishop Damião’s permission, perhaps she can sing more. I pray he will understand, as I know you will understand when you hear Yema sing."

By now the Indians had laid out woven mats in the short grass along the riverbank and set out a meal of yam bread, fruit, and cured fish. They began a singsong chant. Doçura listened closely as Yema chimed in. What she heard was simply a little girl’s voice, nothing extraordinary. She decided not to comment, but thought, What is happening here? and gave the priest a quizzical look.

Misunderstanding, he responded, This food is in our honor. Doçura shrugged and settled herself between two of the children, a boy on her left and Yema on her right. The medicine woman, Janaína, spoke to the boy and he immediately moved, making room for her. She next spoke to Yema.

The little girl listened and said, Janaína wants to know if you are a medicine woman?

I am not, Doçura answered. Simply a woman of the Church. We are called nuns.

When the girl explained, the woman gave them both a troubled look and spoke in hard, sharp sentences. "Janaína is upset because you are not turguy kuñã, Yema said. She wants someone to give us a remedy for the coughing sickness."

I wish I could, the nun answered.

The Indians blame us for bringing the sickness, Fr. Julian said. I suppose they are right. He swept his hand around. None of these people appear ill, but several at the village have died, and many more are stricken. That’s why Janaína’s husband is not here. He is gravely ill.

The nun turned to the little girl. Tell her I wish we had a remedy. I truly wish we did. And I am sorry for her husband.

The conversation moved to lighter subjects. The sister asked Fr. Julian, What are we to do about all this nakedness? You know the bishop dislikes—

Indeed he wants his savages clothed, he answered. And we’ll find clothes for them at the settlement before we meet with him tomorrow.

Yema gave the priest a puzzled look. Fr. Julian, does this bishop think we Caeté are savages?

A figure of our speech, little cantora, and you are not savages.

Doçura listened with amazement. She passed her fingers across the child’s feathered headdress. You don’t miss a thing, little one, do you?

***

With the meal concluded, they set out for the abbey. Once more mounted on their mules, Doçura said to Julian, May we ride ahead? I have many questions. The priest nodded and they moved off. Once out of earshot, she asked, Are these people cannibals or not? Is their civility just for show? They appear as savage as any people I’ve ever seen. Certainly more so than the natives around the settlement. All this red paint, tattoos and feathers.

You certainly get to the heart of the matter, dear sister, Fr. Julian said. Bishop Damião assured me you would.

It is my nature to be direct. And that child. She has the same tattoos around her eyes as the witch woman. That’s what she is, right?

I said it’s complicated, and it is. First of all, they were quite recently cannibals. They ate the bodies of enemies captured in wars with other tribes. By eating them, the Caeté believe they acquire the spirit of the enemy, and thus defeat them.

Disgusting!she said, but could not help remembering her conversation with the ship’s captain. In a similar manner we acquire the spirit of Christ, she reasoned, the Sacrament of His Person.

True, Julian said, bringing her back to the present, but they also have some rituals I’ve only heard about, some so awful I cannot even tell you. I hope I never live to see them. For now they have given up the practice of cannibalism because I forbade it. It may be the intervention of our Savior, or it may be the sickness. So many men have died, none have the energy to wage war. I’m sure distant tribes without a priest still war and eat their captives.

And the woman, Janaína? Doçura asked.

"Besides being the child’s aunt, the name tuguy kuñã means blood woman. She oversaw the care, feeding, and eventual killing and eating of the captives. He reacted to the sister’s startled look and nodded. Yes I said ‘care.’ You really don’t want to know the details. So our little girl is the apprentice to the witch woman as you call her. She is a tuguy kuñã in training. That’s why she has the face markings at the corners of her eyes. Makes her look like a cat, doesn’t it?"

The two of them looked back to see the natives following in the trail a distance behind. And as you’ve seen, he went on, Yema’s talents are considerable. She and her aunt are the only females allowed to go along when the tribe trades with others who do not speak their dialect. Our cantora has the skill to listen to a language and quickly translate it. She has little trouble with the native languages since most are similar. They regard her as a treasure in the village.

How long did it take her to learn Portuguese?

Oh, quite a while, Fr. Julian answered. At least a year. She was very insistent, following me around, yammering constantly. But she can also be quite charming, so I put up with it. Even before she knew much Portuguese, maybe after a dozen or so church services, she began to recite Latin and sing some of the Mass. I was astounded.

Her speech seems almost cultivated.

It is, dear sister, at her insistence. You will have plenty of time to find out how insistent she can be.

What do you mean? Doçura asked.

I should not have said that, the priest answered, appearing shocked by his own words. He crossed himself. Oh my goodness. They rode in a tense silence, broken only by loud calls of birds in the treetops and the chatter of Indians following in the trail. Finally he said, Bishop Damião believes that if Cantora lives up to expectations, the Church will adopt her and you will be her guardian.

Doçura felt a sudden chill and pulled her mule to a stop. That is not right. What about her family?

I don’t know. The priest shrugged. We shall see. It will likely be the end of my mission with these people.

"Adopt? Don’t you mean steal? Do you know the Hebrew word khateefat, Fr. Julian? Well I do! It means stealing children. This is a dangerous thing we do. Besides, the girl sounded quite ordinary when she sang back at the camp."

I should have not have said what I did, Sister Doçura. But regarding her singing just now, that was because she sang with the others. By herself, it’s quite another matter.

The nun turned the mule and rode back to the Indians who had nearly caught up and trudged just a few yards behind. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, but Yema ran up, grabbing at a leather strap that hung from the saddle. She began asking questions. The nun pulled the strap away from her. Little one, don’t. I’m afraid the animal will step on you. Have someone lift you up here and you can ride with me. Someone did, and in the next moment the child was riding on the sidesaddle in front of Sister Doçura, one hand resting on the saddle’s rim, the other on the nun’s arm which encircled her waist. Yema’s hair smelled of cinnamon, and the touch of her hand and the feel of the child’s gentle weight as she leaned back against the nun made Doçura’s heart melt with affection.

As they neared the settlement with Yema slumped forward, fast asleep, Doçura’s dread grew. For the past half-hour she had entertained the idea of warning the Indians, telling them to go back to their village. What would she do then? Gather her few belongings and return with them? An exile with a native tribe in the jungle? Excommunicated? The thought was nearly as terrifying as what lay ahead. But it struck her that it might all work out once the bishop heard Yema sing. Her voice would sound like any other child’s. He would simply shrug, chastise Fr. Julian, and send them all home. Then she could go back to her usual churchly duties, ministering to the native women and children of the settlement. This is what she always wanted to do, work with women and children and little babies. Help them deal with the rigors of the dyewood trade. Help them with salvation, salvation here on earth, and salvation from the pain of disease and injury. And for those enslaved, salvation from their lives of misery. Her brother’s lifelong mission had been a fight against slavery, and she wished to do the same.

***

The next day, Saturday, began with violent thunderstorms that delayed their meeting with Bishop Damião. Fr. Julian remained quartered in the abbey, while the newly arrived Indians took shelter with their brethren in the settlement’s thatched huts called ógas.

When the group finally assembled in the afternoon, they found the bishop in an unsettled mood, irritated at the weather’s effect on his schedule. The natives were also unsettled, having to wear clothes, many of them for the first time in their lives. Bishop Damião was surprised by the number of people—too many for his office—and allowed only Yema and her brother, her parents, Fr. Julian, and Doçura into his inner sanctum. He gestured for everyone to take a seat, then walked around the room, greeting each person as Julian made the introductions. To the great amusement of the children, his dog watched the goings-on from his perch atop the bishop’s desk. After the introductions, the bishop knelt in front of Yema and extended his hand. So you are the little cantora? he inquired.

Yes, answered Yema, placing her small hand in his. I am the girl who sings in church.

My-oh-my, child, your Portuguese is indeed excellent. Fr. Julian has so informed me.

Bishop Damião, Julian asked, "would you like to hear Yema sing? I can recite a brief liturgy to the Confiteor Deo, and then provide the cadence for her to sing the Confiteor."

Perfect, thought Sister Doçura. She will sing, the bishop will be disappointed and he will send them home. That will be the end of it.

To her distress, this did not happen. The bishop waved his hand. That won’t be necessary, he said, looking at Yema. I am sure your voice is most special. We shall hear your charmed singing in church tomorrow morning.

Julian protested. But Your Grace, her voice is also most unusual for a child. It would—

Bishop Damião stood. Fr. Julian, my day is much too crowded. He walked to his office door and opened it. There will be many opportunities to hear her sing. Tomorrow, Julian, tomorrow. As the group filed out, he motioned to Doçura. Will you stay a moment please? He closed the door, then turned and said, Dear Mãe, have you come to know this child?

A little, sir. Just on the trip from the Jacu encampment. Her intelligence seems remarkable.

So it would seem. Have you heard her sing?

Yes, with the other natives. She sounded like any other child. Nothing unusual. I wish we had listened today. Tomorrow may be disappointing.

I see. The bishop wrung his hands and gave a series of nods, for a moment unable to find the words. Finally he said, Well, would you spend some time with the girl this afternoon? Find her something suitable to wear, not those rags she had on today. Take her to that woman in the settlement.

Yes, she said, Fr. Julian and I intended to do so this morning, but the storm kept us inside. I’ll see to it this afternoon.

And one more thing, Bishop Damião said, if these people want to be all painted up for Mass tomorrow, that’s fine. But can Yema please have a clean face?

Doçura assured the bishop she would do her best, then left the office. It’s starting, she thought. I will be a party to this kidnapping. When the nun caught up with the Indians, she addressed the child’s mother while Yema translated. The bishop would like your daughter to wear something special for tomorrow’s Mass. There is a woman here, she and her daughters make clothes. The Indians dutifully followed Doçura through the settlement, the children playing, running ahead, the nun silent and lost in her thoughts.

Bishop Damião stepped onto his balcony and watched the Caeté group as it worked its way through the confusion of brown huts. After a moment he returned to his desk and picked up the large silver cross. He went to the altar in one corner of his room, knelt, and held the cross aloft. He gazed at the crucifix on the wall behind the altar. Oh Mighty Lord Jesus, Light of the World, Savior of Mankind, bless us tomorrow with Your Grace. Grant that this Indian child shall be your first miracle of The New World. I plead this as Your most faithful servant at the very frontier of God’s realm.

Chapter 3

The sun rose from the Atlantic into a beautiful sky strewn with small clouds extending to the horizon, and a soft breeze from the ocean promised a temperate morning. Doçura woke at first light and went to the abbey’s kitchen where she drank a hurried cup of tea, then walked to the nearby chapel for the Lauds devotion. An acolyte conducted the service for the few souls in attendance, a soldier from the garrison, a half-dozen sailors, and a young Indian woman who Doçura knew to be a prostitute.

After the devotion, she walked to the church and found it already surrounded by a talkative crowd eager to hear the little cantora. It appeared that a good number of the Indians had spent the night sleeping on the ground around the building. Soldiers were stationed at each entrance to keep the crowd from overrunning the place. It was a simple structure, fifty feet long by thirty wide, and covered with a peaked, thatched roof that overhung the sides of the building to less than three feet above the ground. This design, which the settlers copied from the native huts, afforded dry shelter even during the heaviest rainstorms. The building’s interior had four rows of finished wood benches directly in front of the altar for Europeans, and a series of log benches to the rear for the natives.

Doçura, concerned about the day’s events, had not slept well. Her worries continued through Lauds and her brief visit to the church, and now stayed with her as she entered the small dining area next to the abbey’s kitchen, a space reserved for church workers. There were several people there, all of whom she knew, including the settlement priest, Father Paulo—unusually drunk for a Sunday morning—and his assistant. Sitting at another table were two young Indian women, sisters in training, who met frequently with Doçura in preparation for their voyage to Portugal and formal schooling at the Convent Coimbra. The last thing the nun wanted was to be around people this morning. Nevertheless, she greeted each person, then seated herself with the two women.

Are you excited to hear this fabled child sing? one of them asked. But before Doçura could answer, Fr. Paulo, having overheard the question, rushed from the room followed by his assistant. The young woman frowned and said, I think he’s upset that he is not conducting Mass today. It will be Fr. Julian? Is that right?

Doçura nodded. That’s only because the child knows him. Her name is Yema. And hopefully for Fr. Paulo’s sake, I think it will be Julian just for today. A slave boy brought in the usual breakfast, thick maze gruel and yerba buena tea, setting the plates in front of the women. They said a brief grace, then poured goat’s milk on the cereal and sweetened it with black syrup. In an effort to avoid the subject of Cantora, she tapped the syrup pitcher with her spoon. Do you know where this came from? she asked. What it is?

The two novitiates looked at each other. The young woman named Sincera said, I know it comes from Tomé Island, but I have no idea what it is. It’s one of my favorites. In fact, black syrup was a favorite with all the natives, and often used as a trading currency. While the Indian population knew sweet foods—flower nectar, ripe fruit, and honey in moderate abundance—the thick, black syrup from across the sea was particularly suited to their taste. It had the subtle flavor of roasted figs, and the myriad of ants suspended in the liquid gave it a unique sharpness. Honey on the other hand was sweeter, though the wax and broken bodies of bees gave the local honey a somewhat bitter flavor. Honey from Portugal and even that from São Tomé was filtered through gauze and did not have the bitter undertones. But gauze was in short supply in the settlement, and used primarily for insect netting around sleeping areas.

Doçura held up the heavy pitcher. This is why our Church can afford to send you to Portugal— sugar. Indeed the syrup does come from Tomé, and it’s produced from the sugar mills. It drains into basins beneath the drying bins and slaves collect it. Most likely that’s why our priest was so drunk this morning. It makes a very strong beer. Then in a hushed voice she said, Never doubt for a minute, ladies, our Church is devoted to commerce almost as much as to our Beloved Savior. Before the subject of the child singer could be raised again, the nun stood and excused herself. I must return to my quarters and prepare for Mass. She quickly retreated from the room, leaving her companions exchanging puzzled looks.

***

Although no one needed a reminder that day, a half hour before nine, the bell atop the abbey rang, announcing Mass and summoning the faithful. The bell, just above Doçura’s room, startled her. She had been drifting in thought and prayer, asking for guidance and understanding for the events that lay ahead. The nun waited a few minutes, then left for the church. She’d found no one in the courtyard and scarcely anyone along the way. Everybody was already there, the church nearly filled. From the size of the mob, it appeared to be the entire settlement, and most of the congregation would have to listen from the outside. A soldier motioned to Doçura from a side entrance, escorting the sister to her usual seat on the front-row bench. She was pleased to see Yema and her companions sitting there, including Janaína who appeared as stern as ever.

The child, her eyes dancing, patted the bench and said, Please sit here. Doçura settled herself next to the little girl, smiling at how pretty she looked in the blue shift dress they had found for her the previous day. See, Yema said, plucking at the nun’s habit, we are almost the same color.

Once settled, Doçura turned to greet the people who sat behind her, and was met with a line of sullen faces. These were privileged citizens of the settlement, accustomed to sitting in the front row. Merchants, slave traders, dyewood brokers, and others irritated not only by the change of seating but by the presence of the Indians in front of them.

The congregation turned silent, standing as Bishop Damião—gently swinging the smoldering incense thurible—took his place in front of the altar table. He faced east, his back to the congregation. Next Fr. Julian joined him and stood with his hands clasped in prayer, then turned briefly and smiled at Yema, who nodded solemnly. Fr. Paulo’s assistant took the third position next to Julian, providing the required Trinity. Doçura speculated that Fr. Paulo was likely too drunk to attend, much less take the third position. Two Indian altar boys came forward, one taking the thurible from the bishop, the other handing him the veiled chalice. Julian took the sanctuary bell from the table and rang it three times, accepted the chalice from the bishop, and placed it next to the Missal. The bishop retired to his chair to the left of the altar table.

Fr. Julian crossed himself, and gazed at the crucifix above the table. He recited, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti… .

And thus began the Mass.

Paulo’s assistant and Fr. Julian worked their way through the Ordo and Psalm 42. Julian delivered the priest’s introduction, and concluded with "Dominum Deum nostrum." Next, the assistant chanted the brief Misereatur Tui Omnipotens, bringing the Mass to the Confiteor. He stepped back and nodded to Yema who by this time was already standing. Doçura gave her hand a squeeze before the little girl ascended the pulpit and took her place next to Fr. Julian. Without prompting, she faced the crucifix and made the sign of the cross. Then, her features radiant, Yema turned to the congregation, and began to sing.

♫ "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti

beatae Mariae semper virgini

beato Michaeli archangelo…"

Churchgoers and clergy alike gasped in unison at the sound of her voice— Suddenly gasped as if struggling for air. Many slid from their seats and knelt or prostrated themselves. Outside listeners fell to their knees, for there was no room to lay flat. Likewise Bishop Damião slid forward from his chair and prostrated himself on the altar, his hands clasped prayerfully in front of him. The three figures on the altar remained standing. Doçura listened in spellbound amazement. The Indians around her displayed satisfied grins, for they had heard their magic Yema sing many times before.

Her voice filled the church, and some felt it filled the world. They heard a powerful grown woman’s voice, not that of a child’s. A vital singing, the honeyed perfume of song, an ecstasy upon the ear.

And at the end, ♫… orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum, Yema left the pulpit and took her seat next the Doçura. Julian waited a few moments while people collected themselves, then continued. The bishop returned to his chair, visibly shaken and with tears in his eyes, tears shared by many in the congregation.

For the worshipers now, the rest of the Mass seemed to take forever, the child’s singing having changed everything. Finally Fr. Julian chanted the last words, … Patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis, and the assistant responded, Deo gratias. A quiet settled over the congregation until Julian, looked directly at little Yema, repeated the last phrase in Portuguese, Thanks be to God, and then, Me’eng kũ Túva veve, the language of the Caeté. The congregates repeated the phrase, the two languages mixing in strange dissonance.

At that moment the cold fear again gripped Sister Mãe da Doçura. Her own kidnapping replaying itself in this new land.

***

Immediately after Mass, the Sunday festival began. The bishop, in his efforts to entice the multitudes to the ranks of the faithful, scheduled frequent festivals of food, entertainment, and celebration. All morning the delicious odor of roasting meat, both goat and pig, had drifted across the settlement. The food, prepared in the garrison courtyard, now approached the church via a procession of carts drawn by free Africans and Indians and supervised by mounted soldiers in parade regalia.

Soon everyone began to feel the heat of the day. The soldiers discarded much of their suffocating uniforms, and the natives their Sunday clothing. Doçura congratulated Yema, calling her The Cantora for the first time, then used the heat as an excuse to retire to her quarters. Once inside, she removed her outer garments and ate some fruit brought from the celebration.

That afternoon a messenger knocked on Doçura’s door and passed her a note. She was summoned to meet with the bishop and Julian an hour before Vespers. When the time arrived, she met them in the courtyard, the bishop taking the opportunity to walk his little dog.

Damião began the conversation. At Vespers tonight I will say a special prayer of thanks for this child singer. She is indeed the miracle I’ve hoped and prayed for. Fr. Julian informs me that she is anxious to return to her village, that the medicine woman is encouraging this quick departure using the excuse of her husband’s illness. I am sure you both now realize this child can be instrumental in converting the natives. Then he added, Likely more successful than our past efforts. They paused for a moment to watch the dog’s antics as it chased grasshoppers strayed onto the cobblestones from outside the courtyard.

When Julian picked up the conversation, the sister had the feeling that he and the bishop had rehearsed all this. "I invited the family to Vespers this evening. Also we must keep Cantora engaged and tempted. So with the bishop’s permission, I promised she could sing the Glória this evening. She already knows it."

Doçura gulped, trying to understand her feelings. She felt delight at the prospect of hearing the girl’s miraculous voice again; and intensely fearful that her involvement to lure this child into the churchly fold was about to be thrust upon her. Julian had said something important, and she’d missed it. I’m sorry, she said to Fr. Julian, "please repeat that. The thought of hearing her sing the Glória overwhelmed me for a moment."

What I said, Sister, is that I also promised she could sing more of the Mass next Sunday, and that you would be her instructor.

Doçura nodded gravely as Bishop Damião picked up where Julian left off. Dear Mãe, I have asked Fr. Paulo to assist you. With a nod to Julian, he continued. Fr. Julian tells me the child is fond of you. So I want you to sit with her at Vespers, and in the future spend as much time with the girl as you can. I believe she will stay with us as long as we provide new things for her to learn. You can meet with her daily at the chapel to school her in the chants and hymns of the Mass.

Doçura turned and looked at them. What about her wish to return to the village?

Bishop Damião answered. We want you to persuade her to stay. Let that tattooed woman go home without her. We will give the child’s immediate family whatever they want. The nun tried to say something, but the bishop continued. Sister Mãe, this child is an asset beyond our wildest dreams. I have instructed the garrison captain to provide anything they want, a tent, food from the garrison kitchen, and—.

The bishop’s dog began growling, then furiously barking as it ran to the courtyard entrance where a large procession of Indians along with a few Portuguese and Africans streamed inside. From what they could see, it appeared there were more than fifty people. At the head of the procession walked an Indian leading a goat with a rope around its neck. The bishop addressed Fr. Julian. See to that, please. And see if you can catch my dog. Doçura took the opportunity to excuse herself.

A smiling Fr. Julian returned with the squirming dog and set him by the bishop’s feet. They’re all here for Vespers, he said. And the goat’s a gift to the Church. He looked around. Where is Sister Doçura?

The bishop inclined his head towards her quarters. Just as you warned, I’m afraid Sister Mãe does not approve of our scheme. But right now, dear Julian, there are far too many people for our small chapel. Pass the word. We will celebrate Vespers in the church. Think of it, Julian, our largest Vespers ever.

***

Sitting at her desk that evening, a large candle illuminating her journal, Sister Doçura recorded the day’s events. As the nun contemplated the meeting in the courtyard, she paused for a moment, then started a fresh page.

Late afternoon brought my most dreaded fear. Bishop Damião charged me with schooling Cantora. He aims to coerce her to stay in the settlement, not to return to her village. Because of the child, the crowds were so large we moved Vespers to the church. Her singing the Glória was a supreme treat, but I could not shake my fear. Perhaps she is indeed a miracle. I don’t understand how a small child can sing so beautifully. If I am to be her teacher, what will I do when she pleads with me to return home?

Doçura prepared for bed. She removed her clothes and washed herself using the water basin and pitcher in the corner of the room, then rubbed her face and body with a fragrant poultice of flowers given to her by Marét, Yema’s mother. Next she donned her nightgown and brushed her hair, sighing as she remembered how long and beautiful it was years ago in Lisbon. The sister had not said a Rosary for her evening prayers in quite some time. But this evening, lying in her dark bed, the gauze net moving softly around her, she said the Rosary twice before falling into a troubled sleep, the Glória echoing in her thoughts.

Chapter 4

On Monday morning, Yema’s father and most of the visitors prepared to leave for the village. Only the girl, her six-year-old brother, and the mother would stay. Before leaving, the family and Janaína conferred for a half-hour by themselves in the courtyard. Then the children and mother, accompanied by Doçura, followed the Caeté to the edge of the settlement where they said their good-byes. The nun found herself painfully missing her own family as she watched the affection the tribe members showed one another as they bade farewell. Later that day she enrolled Yema and her brother in the settlement school.

The next afternoon, the nun and Fr. Paulo began Yema’s religious instructions in the abbey’s chapel. At first only the mother and brother attended, sitting quietly in the back with Doçura’s young Indian novitiates. Occasionally the two novitiates stood in when needed for the Mass ceremony. After a few days, the attendance grew to two dozen, including the bishop who sat by himself and watched the goings-on.

Doçura hoped Yema’s daily involvement and her obvious interest in learning would entice her to stay in the settlement. Fr. Paulo tried to arrange work for her mother, as a maid in the garrison, a helper in the abbey’s kitchen, or tending the settlement’s large vegetable garden. In every case she turned them down, indicating her lack of interest in staying for more than another week or so, citing her growing fear for the health of her brother, the husband of the blood woman Janaína.

Doçura and Paulo spoke with Fr. Julian who planned his return to the village on the coming Saturday. He responded helpfully by telling Yema’s mother that he would send a runner back with news of her brother’s health. He also confided to Paulo and Doçura that, The only reason she remains here are the instructions she and Yema received from Janaína. The blood woman told them that she did not trust foreigners, but also feels we are here to stay, and they must find a way to accommodate to our presence. When Paulo and Doçura appeared taken aback by this, he said, Even though these natives are a simple folk, they’re not stupid. Without cunning, the Caeté could never have survived in this jungle.

***

To the delight of the clergy, services on Sunday were again overrun with worshipers. This day Yema’s singing sounded ever more glorious. In addition to the Confiteor Deo, her recital of the Agnus Dei prior to communion again brought tears to the eyes of many of the faithful. Her exquisite voice seemed to soar to the heavens. Most stirring was the manner in which she raised her lovely face and hands when she began the Domine Jesu Christe.

Bishop Damião began making plans for a new church, and determined to provide the Vatican with the first holy revelation of the New World, contemplated a letter to the Holy See requesting the Consilium de Virtutibus, the Council of Miracles. He was greatly pleased with the joyous nature of the festival that afternoon, but also concerned about the improvised shrines that began to appear around the church and abbey. He expressed his worries to Fr. Paulo and Doçura. I understand the flowers and fruit and other trifles. I’ll even tolerate the decorated stones, but the little wooden statues are graven images. Pagan blasphemy. How can we tolerate these? He picked up one from the several left at the church entrance and handed it to Fr. Paulo.

It’s their tribute to little Yema, Paulo said. I see the Africans making them too. It is a good thing if we can attract more Africans to our church. Everyone speaks of Cantora with great passion sir, and as you’ve observed, she is a remarkable asset to our mission here. He refrained from telling the bishop the statues also symbolized the native Goddess of the Sea, Yemanjá, but later that day confided his own miracle to Doçura. This child has indeed inspired me, dear sister. My cravings no longer demand strong drink. I took to drink because of my homesickness for Lisbon. I felt I did not belong here. Now I do.

Each morning Yema awoke excited with the prospects of both school and liturgical training. She felt disappointed that she understood so little of the Latin, but knew it would come in time. This was balanced with her swelling sense of pride and her interest in learning more from the Europeans. The whites had knowledge she thirsted to understand. Each day brought new and intriguing mysteries; they seemed to know so many things. To her delight one day, Fr. Paulo produced a magical instrument called a lute on which he played the notes she was instructed to sing. This was so unlike Fr. Julian’s method of singing notes in a lower pitch, and the two of them then striving to make it perfect. Where would she fit this magical lute into her learning— Would Fr. Paulo show her how to play it?

As far as her singing was concerned, she’d always wondered about her voice. The tribe had songs, and the men who sang the chants often gave her a part or two to sing. At first they included her begrudgingly, and only at Aunt Janaína’s insistence. When Yema grew older, the men allowed her to sing more. But their chants contained only a few tones, not the soaring notes of the Mass.

All the children, particularly the boys, learned to whistle bird calls for hunting. The girls teased them since they could often do it better, and groups of children would compete to see who could make the best calls. Yema was the champion bird-caller because she sang the calls as well as whistled them, adding subtle vocal variations not possible otherwise.

Yema found the whites’ religion puzzling, so unlike her tribe whose beliefs in spirits included both ancestors and persons of the netherworld. Also, these Catholics did not heed the Caeté gods whose presence was everywhere, the sky and sea, the rain, the jaguar, the sun and moon and many stars, even the hordes of ants that sometimes marched through the jungle. She could not be sure if this Jesus person was an ancestor to the Europeans. Certainly he must be since they had so many carvings of him and his symbol, the cross. She preferred carvings of animals, animals like the tapir who provided sinews for bracelets, earrings, and bow strings, food and hides for her tribe, an animal of the night, difficult to hunt and demanding much skill from the hunters. And she treasured the carvings of her namesake, the Sea Goddess Yemanjá.

But the foreigners’ religion must be special, she reasoned. It seemed connected to everything they do, from the immense sailing ships to the beautiful lace shawl that Sister Doçura sometimes wore. And of course, there was the music that had added so much to her life, apparently an essential part of their beliefs. The whites had asked the natives to pledge themselves to the Christ person, and a great number had done so for reasons she did not fully understand. Possibly they had accepted the white god out of some kind of fear—fear of all the weapons and ships and mysteries under the Europeans’ control.

A few years ago, when she was just a little girl, Fr. Julian baptized many in her tribe and told them they were now part of Christ’s family. Aunt Janaína said it was all nonsense, but thought it a good idea to accept their rituals. Yema soon learned that compliance and expressions of faith greatly pleased the whites, particularly the clergy. If that’s what it took to continue her musical training and privilege for her family, certainly she could go along with it.

At the beginning of the second week, the Caeté astounded Doçura. Yema’s training for the day had just concluded, and her mother and brother came to the front of the chapel. Yema took her brother’s hand and prompted him to speak. In halting Portuguese he said, Sister Mãe and Fr. Paulo, we want to teach you our talk and learn…

Too shy to continue, Yema finished for him, and we want to learn Portuguese. The little boy giggled while the mother smiled and nodded.

After this exchange, Doçura hoped this meant that Yema’s family would be more willing to stay. But her hopes were short-lived when a runner arrived on Thursday with news that Janaína’s husband lay near death. Yema’s mother made immediate plans for her and the two children to return to their village. The news sent a chill through everyone involved, though somewhat softened by an accompanying letter from Fr. Julian promising to return Yema to the settlement as soon as he could.

Regardless of Julian’s assurance, Bishop Damião summoned Paulo and Doçura to his office. He appeared in great distress. If they return— He put his head in his hands. "When they return. Well, I was about to send a letter to Pope Julius’ secretary, Giovanni de’ Medici, requesting they convene the Consilium de Virtutibus in our behalf. Now my little girl of miracles has gone back to her savages."

Doçura spoke up. If we had forced them to stay, sir, there’s no telling the outcome. Fr. Paulo and I returned a message to Fr. Julian asking him to encourage Yema’s father to accompany his family back here. We promised him work on the docks where he will be well paid.

Yes. Of course, Damião responded. You have handled this well. We must all pray for their quick return. He stood and walked to the balcony, staring across the settlement. And we must pray that church on Sunday is not abandoned because of Cantora’s absence.

Indeed Sunday Mass was not well attended. Even to the most faithful, the services seemed bland and uninteresting, and much to the displeasure of the clergy, about a dozen Africans and Indians used the interlude during communion to leave the church. The bishop, who was serving communion at the time, grew so angry that he motioned for Fr. Paulo to take over, returning to his chair at the left of the altar. He glared at the people leaving, several departing with obvious indifference through the entrance closest to the pulpit. He could not help thinking, I’d wager they’ll be the first in line when the food carts arrive.

Crowds at the festivities that afternoon were in contrast to church attendance. Throngs of people sang, danced, and played games. Small children in noisy groups ran everywhere, chasing one another with grasshoppers or small lizards in their hands. When the food carts left the garrison and headed toward the church, the people cheered, further angering the bishop. A distinct chant began, The Cantora! The Cantora! over and over again. Someone had placed a life-sized wooden statue on the lead cart with garlands of flowers around its neck and heaped at its feet. As the cart drew near, Bishop Damião saw that despite the rough nature of the carving, the face was definitely Yema’s. So now we are worshiping idols? he said angrily and headed back to the abbey.

***

At the Caeté village the body of Janaína’s husband lay on an elevated bier in front of the community house. Beneath the platform a smudge fire burned day and night keeping flies and scavengers away. The body had lain there five days awaiting burial on the sixth, the end of the mourning period. Janaína donned her jaguar cape and raged around the village denouncing everything Portuguese. She blamed the Europeans for bringing the coughing sickness and decried their religion for dividing her people. From the first, she decided her husband would not have a Catholic burial. The controversy left Julian in a most isolated situation. In addition, he found disturbing images scratched in charcoal on one post of the bier, stick figures with severed arms at their feet. He knew what they meant, Karu ãva Jekuaa! – Consume the whites. The entire community seemed on the edge of violence, many believing that eating Portuguese flesh would make them immune to the mysterious coughing sickness.

The return of Yema and her family to the village further heightened tensions. Janaína demanded the child sing the burial chant, something the girl had done several times in the past. Fr. Julian pleaded for the soul of the dead, even